


TO LET HIS KINGDOM RISE

by ivorygates



Series: To Let His Kingdom Rise [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Dark, M/M, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygates/pseuds/ivorygates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JD betrayed him. That's simple enough; he -- the boy, the <em>copy</em> -- was supposed to go off and have a nice life somewhere else. Jack had let him live when he didn't have to and they both know it. The little bastard should have been grateful for favors rendered, rolled over and played dead like a good clone. And Jack should have known he wouldn't. </p><p>An unofficial sequel to Synecdochic's "Close To Bone"</p>
            </blockquote>





	TO LET HIS KINGDOM RISE

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Close To Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/14603) by Synecdochic. 
  * Inspired by [close to bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343174) by [synecdochic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic). 



He's been coming up to the cabin at Silver Creek for almost half a century. He doesn't even really remember the first time; he might have been eight, might have been nine. It's always been a kind of refuge. A getaway.

He hasn't told anybody he'd be here this weekend. He just needed to get away and think; fall is his favorite season here. Flew commercial into MSP, picked up a charter into a little airport about a hundred miles south of the Junction, found a pilot there who didn't mind dropping him at a private airfield thirty miles away where keeps a beater truck. Drove slow along the back roads -- it's all back roads up here -- and stopped at the little store by the Post Office to gas up the truck and pick up milk and eggs. It's dark by the time he gets there; he fires up the generator so the milk won't go bad, goes inside, changes, lights a fire -- he always leaves one laid. He turns on the lamp by the window, but most of the cabin's dark. After this long, he doesn't need to see to find his way around. The fire will be enough light for Scotch and self-recriminations.

Nobody said Homeworld would be a joyride; Jack hates his job more than he's hated anything short of being in prison. And some days he hates it more, but lately he's had a real incentive to show up for work, because a year and a half ago somebody shot Hank Landry and SG-1 vanished. Nobody knows why or how or where. And unfortunately, he knows a lot of the answers to both questions -- he's pretty sure he knows who shot Landry _(not 'Hank,' not any more; the sonofabitch was selling them out)_ and he knows 'how' and a lot of 'why' SG-1 vanished, and he even knows a lot of what they're doing these days _(little bastard actually sent him a Christmas card)_ He just doesn't know 'where', at least never soon enough to be of any use. There've been one or two calls. He's tried to set up a meeting. JD just laughs. All along they've been just one step ahead of him.

At first he'd thought it would be been easy -- or at least possible -- to reel them in, because they aren't trained for Special Ops. Vala Mal Doran might know something about hiding, but Jack knows exactly what Carter and Mitchell's training consisted of, Jaffa aren't trained in covert operations, and any practical experience Daniel has, he got on SG-1. And it doesn't matter how good _the copy_ that's leading them around now is. Jack had been damned good, so the little bastard probably is too, because that just means he knows how hard it is to vanish undetectably if you're trying to do it with five people who don't know what the hell they're doing. But apparently Jack's taught them _(Carter and Teal'c and Daniel)_ a little too well over the years. 

Because they've just -- vanished. No sign they're out there, if you don't count the bodies, and nobody but Jack can put all those pieces together. No backtrail, no forwarding address. That tells him JD's been planning this for a while, long enough to get his ratlines in place. It isn't really a comforting thought; Jack knows from the old days exactly how much work goes in to running an operation like this -- time, money, resources. How easy it is for it to get blown. Only theirs isn't; if anybody knows where the five -- the _six_ \-- of them are, they aren't talking. It'd be impossible, except for the fact that Jack gave up arguing with reality a long time ago. Jack's got all the resources he cares to draw on for this little manhunt, and it isn't helping. He's even got their weak link; Teal'c needs tretonin to stay alive, and there are damned few places on Earth that he can get it. He knows exactly how JD thinks. He even knows what he's after: his targets are IOA, NID, Homeworld.

And none of it helps. There've been sightings. France, Mexico, Canada, China, even Russia. All over the US, and none of them have panned out. JD sends him packages; it's the only way he knows they're all still out there.

By now Jack's on a first-name basis with the White House special prosecutor -- the _third_ White House special prosecutor assigned to this case, because the first two died suddenly. This one's either really well protected or not connected to the Consortium, because he's actually survived for the last eight months. Jack knows Mike is wondering where the hell he's getting his information, the photos and CDs and lists of names and dates and transactions that arrive by FedEx every few weeks, and so far Jack has avoided telling him. But the information's solid -- a conspiracy among the NID and the IOA and Homeworld to control the Stargate and set policy by any means necessary. Kinsey's rainmaking; the good Senator sowed the seeds for the creation of Homeworld years ago in another bid to gain control of the SGC. And sure, Kinsey never did get to use it -- nothing left of his political career after Anubis' attack on Earth but a burned-out shell -- and Hayes had no idea what he was creating when he signed the legislation. But the Trust did, and all they had to do was wait for the right shift in the political climate. They'd flipped half the IOA before the entire committee was appointed and were well on their way to convincing China and Russia to run a separate-but-equal Stargate Program, before the Ori became enough of a problem that Topic A became saving their own asses by any means available, including human sacrifice.

It's not so much the lies and the betrayals -- spooks and politicians; Jack got used to getting screwed by his own side a long time ago -- but the _stupidity._ How the hell can anybody imagine that a bunch of crazy lightbulbs are going to keep their word? If Earth had any way to enforce the deal, they'd already be kicking Ori butt. The fact that the Ori are dealing at all should tell them they have a chance to actually win the war. And that the things the Ori want are things Earth doesn't dare give up. To hell with all of them, not to put too fine a point on it. There's only one thing that Jack cares about any more, and it's gone. Lost, stolen, strayed -- betrayed, sure, but who did what to whom? And when?

JD betrayed him. That's simple enough; he -- the boy, the _copy_ \-- was supposed to go off and have a nice life somewhere else. Jack had let him live when he didn't have to and they both know it. The little bastard should have been grateful for favors rendered, rolled over and played dead like a good clone. And Jack should have known he wouldn't. He thinks about Edora -- same song, different planet -- and knows he couldn't have spent the rest of his life alone _(the way he is now)_ and that sooner or later he _(the other him)_ would have done something about it. It was supposed to be later, though. The way a lot of things were supposed to happen and didn't.

Everybody knows there's some weeding going on; too many people know SG-1 is missing and there are too damned many bodies. It doesn't matter how much information he buries. Enough is out there so there'll be no way to save them when the net finally tightens. Which it will; it has to.

He recognizes his own work sometimes, in tactics and approaches he was trained in a long time ago, tricks of the trade he picked up piecemeal in all the dark places. He knows it isn't all the little bastard's work. They're all involved; they were from the beginning. That slug they dug out of Landry came out of a 9-mil. They couldn't trace the weapon, but Daniel carries _(carried)_ a Beretta in the field and his clean piece _(if he had one; Jack had always been telling him to get one)_ would probably be the same.

 _You're the weapon,_ his instructors always told him. _Not what you've got in your hands. You._

SG-1 was always a weapon. Peaceful explorers, yadda yadda, and Daniel hated _(used to hate)_ being anything else, but Jack always knew the hard, the uncomfortable, truth -- SG-1 was a weapon looking for weapons. When he can't think about anything else, on white sleepless nights, Jack thinks about the road to hell. What the kid would have said to the five of them, when and how he would have said it, to convince the weapon it _was_ a weapon that needed, that _wanted_ to be used. _(The way JD uses Daniel in their bed. The way they use each other. No. He won't think about that. Ever.)_ The words that would have loaded that weapon, cocked it and aimed it and fired it, over and over and over again, in so many different ways. A plane crash in Russia, a warehouse fire in Brussels. The Swedish IOA delegate hanged himself in Oslo last week; so far Jack's the only one who has a good idea why.

He sits in front of his fire -- flannel shirt, old jeans, deck shoes -- and stares down into a tumbler of Scotch. And wishes, the way he'd used to wish for forgiveness and other things you know you're never going to get, that his kids were here with him. They'd come up here with Landry once. But his kids are missing and Landry's dead, because Landry sold them all out -- him, SG-1 -- _Earth_ \-- and now his kids aren't his kids any more. Eighteen months -- of dead ends, dead bodies, and the _dead solid certainty_ that _that little shit_ is out there, somewhere, with _his team._ Messing with their heads. Getting them to do things Jack would have sworn -- once upon a time -- they'd never do.

Jesus, it's a nice fantasy, isn't it? That they wouldn't have done all the things he's seen in all those envelopes and in the highly-classified reports that he's been burying as deeply as he can. He knows they would have, if he'd asked them to do them in just the right way. They would have done damned near anything for him. Once upon a time.

And that's why he's doing everything he can for them now.

There's no way to save them once they're caught. He probably could have talked Hayes into a pardon if they'd stayed on US soil -- SG-1, secret mission, alien influence, mind control, hell, maybe even throw in time-travel for shits and giggles, but not with Russia involved. The Reds _(ex-Reds)_ will be screaming for blood, and now they'll have Sweden pissed at them too. He'd throw the kid to the wolves in a heartbeat, but not the rest of them.

But Thor still owes him a favor or two, and the little grey guy's never been really clear on Earth politics. When they're caught -- and it's only a matter of time; he's got half the resources of the US Government chasing them, and he's sure the Consortium isn't just sitting on its ass, either -- maybe he can pull one last rabbit out of his General's hat. Make them vanish. Again.

Nowhere in this galaxy is safe, since while the Ori have slowed down for some reason, they're still out there -- but Pegasus is still an option. Daniel always wanted Atlantis. If Jack had let him go back in the beginning, when they had first sent those two hundred heroes _(idiots)_ on their one-way trip _(suicide mission)_ to a pot-of-gold-city everyone had been chasing for years -- would any of this have ever happened? Too late to think of that now, unless he wants to go steal the Timeship and _really_ try to fuck things up. Jesus, he hopes JD hasn't thought of that. But why should he? As far as the little bastard knows, he's got everything going just the way he wants it. There has to be an endgame; sooner or later they're going to run out of people to shoot, and it annoys him _(he refuses to admit that it frightens him)_ that he can't figure out what it is. He knows what _he_ wanted: happily ever after and here and Daniel. Peace and quiet and nobody shooting at him for ever and ever, hallelujah and amen. And JD already _has_ Daniel, damn him to hell and Jack should never have let him live, and the other two parts of the holy trinity don't really seem to be on the table, do they?

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the front door ease open. It's got a lock, but he never bothers -- it's too heavy for anything but a bear to move, and if somebody's lost in the woods up here in winter, they'd better be able to get inside and take shelter. The cabin is twenty miles from the nearest town, and it's Minnesota. People are honest here.

And Daniel steps inside and puts his back against the door. He's dressed in black. Carrying a gun. It's got a silencer; that's new. Daniel always used to forget about the silencer -- even when they were doing covert -- or complain that it interfered with his draw, or bitch about how he didn't see the need -- if he was going to have to shoot someone, he'd always say, he'd rather it be out in the open. Jack guesses he's worked his way past all his objections these days, and he feels a faint dull anger that _that little shit_ could change Daniel's mind about things when he never could. 

He refuses to think about why. _Daniel's beautiful when he's naked, isn't he?_ He can't get the words out of his head: his own private too-damned-late porno show, and sometimes at night he thinks, _if not Atlantis, then surely that?_ Which of the roads-not-taken would have kept them from ending up where they are now?

Jack's personal weapon is in his flight-bag in the bedroom. He's not sure he'd go for it even if it were within reach. This is Daniel, and he's become what Jack never wanted him to be, never asked him to become: a weapon. But part of Jack, the part he stopped looking at in the light of day did want, and part of him (the part he should have killed when he had the chance) asked. And Daniel said yes, to so many things, and now Daniel is here. He doesn't look any older than he did the last time Jack saw him. He looks -- it's a shock -- younger. He looks _happy,_ and there've been a lot of things that have been cruel and unfair and _just plain wrong_ about Jack's life, but he thinks this may be one of the worst: that Daniel looks happy now.

"Did you come alone?" Jack asks.

"That's what you asked me the last time," Daniel answers. He sounds calm, as though this is just another thing to check off on today's to-do list. For a crazy instant Jack wonders what the other things were, then he focuses on the words. There _was_ no last time; Daniel isn't talking about him. For a moment, a year and a half of pent-up frustration and rage makes Jack forget just where he is. That little shit came and _stole his team,_ and oh God, _they let him do it --_

But having a gun on you really keeps your attention focused. Jack wonders, just for a moment, how far over the edge JD's taken all of them, but it's pretty obvious, since Daniel's here _pointing a gun at him._ He only needs to raise it an inch or so to center it for a heart-shot, a good loose grip, no tension. Jack's sure Daniel could stand there all night, just like that if he needed to, and Daniel was never that comfortable around guns before. Wouldn’t even keep a weapon at home. Jack never wanted to press the issue, never wanted to work hard enough to convince Daniel that the world really _was_ that dark and dangerous. He'd wanted Daniel to be innocent, to _stay_ innocent, the way he'd been back at the beginning.

Only Daniel hasn't really been that man for a long time, and this Daniel isn't even the man Jack left behind when he went to Washington; this is a Daniel he doesn't even know, confident and calm and completely at ease with all the things he's done and everything he's going to do here tonight. Jack knows -- _knows,_ down deep where he knows who he is and all the things he loves -- that Daniel was the one to shoot Landry. He's known that for a while.

For one brief shining moment Jack had dared to hope Daniel had found his way back, had remembered eight years of trust and communication and learning each other's broken places. He looks at Daniel's face and knows the moment's passed.

The pieces are all on the board, and they're all the way down to mate in two, but Jack always plays out the endgame.

"We need to talk," he says.

"Not really," Daniel answers easily. The firelight plays over his face, making his eyes opaque behind his glasses; the shadows bleach out their color, leaving only brilliance. "I've talked to a lot of people recently. I do have one question though, if you don't mind satisfying my curiosity for old time's sake. When was it, Jack, that you decided to make the deal? 'We don't leave anyone behind.' You always used to say that. Do we sell them instead?"

There's a curious hurt petulance lurking under that easy tone, if Jack digs down deep enough. _Maybe by the end of it, our kids will believe me if I say that you're the one behind it all, and then I can be the only Jack O'Neill left._ Jack's been hearing that voice whispering at him for a long time. He'd thought it would take longer for this moment to come. He's always known it wouldn't be JD -- in his place, he wouldn't take the risk that he'd think it was worth dying to see his other self dead -- but he'd always assumed it would be Mitchell or Vala. Not someone he loved.

Jack rolls his tumbler between his palms. In DC they're Waterford; up here he's lucky to find a glass in the cupboard at all. The Scotch is the same, though. "Come on, Daniel. We both know it wasn't me."

"You shouldn't have left," Daniel says, and yeah. Almost five years since he's gone through the Gate. He got up one ordinary morning, shaved while bitching at Daniel about something he can't remember now, drove to the Mountain, went through the Gate, took a second download of the Ancient database, and that was the last time he led SG-1 in the field. He went through the Gate with them a few more times. It wasn't the same.

"They don't give you a lot of choice," he answers. It's the truth -- in the military it's up or out -- but it's also an excuse. He was stuck with the promotion, but after he left he could have called more often. Maybe it would have helped. "Anyway, I was jealous."

Daniel raises his eyebrows in polite inquiry, as though they're replaying any old conversation ever. It's normal enough, familiar enough, that Jack waits a beat before delivering the punchline. "You had less paperwork than I did."

"More bruises," Daniel says automatically.

"We had our share," Jack says _(you and I),_ and Daniel nods slightly, his lips pursed as if he's on the verge of saying something. It's the way he always used to look when he was deep in thought, but Jack knows there's not much for him to think about here. His mind's already made up; this is just one last salute to shared history before they re-draw the battle lines.

"We did." Daniel sounds wistful for a minute, but when his jaw firms again, Jack knows the minute's over. "I don't want to be pushy, but shouldn't you be trying to talk me out of shooting you right now?"

He sounds genuinely curious. Jack wonders if he's gathering information, filing and indexing notes for a paper he'll never write or publish. _Old soldiers, reactions of, when the world has gone to hell._

"Bargaining for my life?" Jack sips his Scotch. If these are to be his last moments of life, at least he has this: Scotch and firelight and Daniel. He lifts the glass slightly. _To absent friends._ "I'm not sure what I can offer. You're not stupid. You can't just go walking back into the SGC after this, and I can't think why you'd want to. The Russians and the Chinese will probably figure things out eventually, and then no place on Earth will be safe. And the Ori are still out there." None of this is new, but he's got one last gambit to try. "But if I can get you to a _tel'tak_ and get that to the Gatebridge, you'd still have a chance in Pegasus."

"So we turn ourselves in and you just send us off to Pegasus. Nice." Daniel appears to consider it. "All of us?"

Jack's been expecting the question, but it still hurts. "You mean, is my copy included in the deal? I'd rather shoot him, but if it's the only way to get you to go along with this, sure."

"So we trust you. Again. Sorry." There isn't even regret in Daniel's voice -- regret or anger; hell, at least Daniel used to object to _shooting total strangers_ once upon a time, much less people he used to --

"Daniel, listen to me," Jack says. By now it's obvious Daniel won't believe him, but he has to try. He's not fighting for his life. He's fighting for theirs. _Our kids. Mine. Yours. Damn you, you little shit --_ "No matter what you've seen, evidence can be faked. We've done it ourselves. You know that. I never made any deal. I know he told you--"

"No," Daniel says. Calm and cool and oh-so-controlled, the way Jack had sometimes (always) wished for when Daniel had been spitting flames. "He didn't tell us anything. He let us find out for ourselves."

Of course he did. Daniel raises the pistol. As he does, he drops his chin and cocks his head slightly. It's a tell, and a bad one; hasn't JD warned him about that? The movement makes his lenses flash brightly; _Goa'uld_ eyes. Daniel always used to tell Jack that hell was dark and cold, but Jack's a traditionalist -- hell is gold and fire.

"He lied to you," Jack says. The urgency's creeping into his voice; it annoys him to hear it. Daniel had once shamed him out of suicide with nothing more than a recitation of fact; he should be able to summon the same dispassionate tone now. But he can't. He hasn't been able to be dispassionate about Daniel for a while.

Daniel smiles. "Why would he lie to us, Jack? He's you."

In Daniel's voice, Jack hears the echo of a conversation he never had, and he knows this one is over. He won't close his eyes. It's _Daniel._ If someone's going to kill him, better for it to be someone who loved him once. Maybe Daniel thinks he's loving him now; that's irony for you.

The muzzle-flash follows him down into the dark.

#

He can see the lights of the cabin about a mile up the road. He knows he won't hear the sound of the shot. He's long since convinced Daniel of the virtues of silencers, even out in the middle of nowhere.

If he closes his eyes, though, he can see the scene: the old man sitting in that chair of his, the one he could never bring himself to throw out; maybe a beer at his elbow, Daniel standing straight and tall, the Beretta in his hand. He wonders what the old man's saying. 'Evidence can be faked'? Sure it can. It's a lot harder to fake a really sincere confession, but still, possible.

He's been priming LaPierre for almost three years, letting him think his information was coming from Jack O'Neill. He can do a great imitation of the old man; probably only Daniel would catch it, and maybe not even him. LaPierre's even convinced he'd met the Old Man in person a couple of times for particularly sensitive handoffs -- the Reole drug made sure LaPierre saw exactly what JD wanted him to see. And when his team finally got around to him, LaPierre had it all: classified work-documents from Homeworld, scribbled memos in O'Neill's handwriting, stuff dating back practically to the moment the first Prior came through the Gate. JD always knew it would come in handy someday, even though at first he'd only been planning to get the Old Man shot for treason.

This is so much more satisfying. By the time he led them to LaPierre, he'd spent eight months arguing that Jack O'Neill was an innocent dupe -- _old, tired, let the old man rest in peace, for God's sake, it's the least we can do for him --_ and all the little pieces they found couldn't possibly add up the way they seemed to. Daniel had been so _comforting_ as JD's disillusion with the Old Man grew; JD wonders if O'Neill's telling Daniel he loves him right this minute. Daniel won't believe it. He'd better not; Daniel loves _him._ It's the way it was always meant to be; they were supposed to be together, and now they always will be -- him and Daniel, him and his team. _Forever._ Once Daniel walks out that door, JD will be the only Jack O'Neill left. O'Neill's execution is Daniel's ultimate gift to him; Daniel wouldn't have offered to be the one if he didn't really love JD. All of them had offered -- even Sam, his sweet girl, and she and Vala are so pretty together -- but it had to be Daniel, because the old man wanted Daniel most of all.

And with the old man gone, they're all safe, because O'Neill's the only one who ever had a hope of figuring it all out. Oh, there _was_ a Consortium, and it _had_ gotten the idea of making a deal with the Ori. But politicians make lousy conspirators, the whole thing would have blown up a dozen times in the last two years without a little help. Now JD doesn't need them any more, and it's time for them to say goodnight. And Daniel never has to know any of it; all he needs to know is that someone wanted to hurt him and JD saved him, saved all of them, and now none of them has to be alone any more, because it's lonely out here in the dark. Daniel's with him in the dark now, but he's not alone; Daniel will never be alone again.

JD leans against a tree and waits. It's good to be back here. Can't remember how old he was the first time he came. Pity it'd never be safe to buy the place. He almost misses fishing.

#

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time wrote a story called _"Close To Bone"_ for the DarkGate ficathon, and her story can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343174
> 
> And everybody said: "What the hell happens next?!?!? You can't just leave it there!"
> 
> And I have never refrained from poking things with sharp sticks. What follows isn't exactly mine, as it's the results of several days of e-mails, a lot of IM, my attempt to think and write like her, and, er, at least a third of it isn't mine...


End file.
